Hands
by Yombatable
Summary: Alistair had big hands. ScotEng. One-Shot.


**So you ever write something at 2 in the morning and wonder if you should maybe wait until the morning to re-read it and find out if it's good before posting it on the internet? Yeah, I wondered that and then ignored it so HERE YA GO! At 2 in the morning, here is a thing wot I wrote.**

 **Enjoy! ;)**

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Alistair had big hands.

Now say what you will about how that compared to his penis, but that was not what Arthur was trying to get at when he said Alistair had big hands.

It was more to do with the fact that Arthur, himself, had rather small hands, more gangly than strong, more bone than much else, and he couldn't help but notice the difference when they found themselves twisted together.

Alistair's hands engulfed his, and not in a bad way, nor that substantially, but Arthur noticed all the same. When their fingers twisted into each other, Alistair's would grip just a little more tightly, Arthur's disappearing into his hold, simply because they could, Arthur usually supposed, it only made sense.

They weren't soft hands, they were as rough as they were big, and Arthur always noticed when their calluses brushed together, because it's as easy to feel a lack of feeling as it is an overabundance. Metaphorically or not. Arthur's own hands weren't soft either, and he thought maybe he should take better care of them, people often told him that his hands were almost jarring to hold, but Alistair had never complained, and he had always silently thanked him for that.

Alistair's hands had a habit of gripping too tightly. Be it on bruised fruit, or bruised thighs, he usually left a mark, and Arthur had always been unsure if it was intentional or not, but complained about neither the fruit nor his thighs, the bruises always reminded him of Alistair, so really there wasn't anything to complain about. Other than Alistair's slightly smug grin whenever he noticed them, perhaps, but he could have his moment. Arthur didn't mind that look so much when it was about this.

He had once kissed those hands, as Alistair had watched him, a look of deep awe in his eyes, his lips had traced the tendons up his fingers and to his blunt and chewed fingernails and back again. They had tasted like soap and something Arthur couldn't describe as anything but _Alistair_. He had looped their fingers together, kissing the places where they joined, where large finger met skinny, where two different kinds of pale skin met at the seam.

He rather quickly decided that he loved Alistair's hands.

More specifically when they were curled into his.

Or just when they were curled into _him_.

When they engulfed him like his fingers and the calluses made him forget there was anything but _them_. The two of them, curling like fingers into each other, Arthur disappearing into Alistair's chest as his fingers did his palm, their breathing as hard as their pulses.

A different seam, of the same different shades of pale forming between them, but they were so close now that the seam was so easy to believe was a figment of their imagination. The lack of feeling became the overabundance, and the lips which had been kissing fingers found other skin.

Other skin met puffing breaths, and loosening tendons, hands and bodies remaining curled into each other even as it was no longer necessary to do so. The hands brushed up sides, and down backs, tracing bruises from one and scratches from the other, lighter now, but neither set of hands entirely let go.

Curling.

Twisting.

Looping.

Big or small, it didn't matter, their hands were the same...

Rough...

Calloused...

To anyone but them, entirely unappealing.

But Arthur loved Alistair's hands. No matter how many bruises they leave. No matter where they leave them, because any and all reminders of Alistair's skin on his is enough for him to ignore any pain they might leave behind.

Especially when those hands juxtaposed themselves. So beautifully tender on his bruises, soothing them over, all over, touching him as if he were an object that could be broken, even though he'd just proven that he couldn't break quite so easily. Light and gentle and making the pulse in his wrists jump and pound while also calming it back to a steady rhythm. And then just...

Holding him like he wanted him there.

Keeping him steady, so that Arthur felt there was nowhere else he could be.

Nowhere but under those hands.

And in truth, he wasn't sure there was anywhere else he'd want to be.

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 **The ending is weak as fuck, forgive me, I literally had no idea how to end it.**


End file.
